


To Love With Monstrous Souls

by Triangulum



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Established Natasha Romanov/Clint Barton, F/M, Getting Together, M/M, Not Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Oral Sex, Threesome - F/M/M, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-13
Updated: 2019-03-13
Packaged: 2019-11-16 14:26:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18096092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Triangulum/pseuds/Triangulum
Summary: She's waiting out front when Steve brings him to the Avengers compound in upstate New York. She's standing at the building's entrance, back straight and hands loose at her sides, a blonde man on her left. His stance in casual, but his eyes are alert and focused. James recognizes him instantly, not just as their archer, but as a fellow sniper. He vaguely thinks he may have encountered him in South Africa, but he isn't sure. He presents himself as relaxed, but James knows instantly that he's dangerous.





	To Love With Monstrous Souls

**Author's Note:**

> I mean...how many times can I say that this isn't what I meant to write until everyone figures out that I never have a damn plan lol.
> 
> This isn't Age of Ultron or Civil War compliant for the simple reason that I hated them. I just cruised by to pick up Wanda.

James had never expected to see Natalia again. He'd seen her in DC, had tried to _kill_ her, and he hadn't even known it was her. There'd been something niggling in the back of his mind, but he'd pushed that aside as he'd been conditioned to do, focusing on the mission at hand.

Memories trickled in after the fall of Hydra. He'd run, searching for his past, his identity, any clue about who he is and what he's done. The flashes of memories started with a glimpse of red hair, the feel of soft skin marred with scars against his, the citrus smell of shampoo. Once he remembered her face, remembered all she'd meant to him, he'd thrown up, heaving until there was nothing left but bile.

He'd loved her, cared for her more than anything, and he'd forgotten her. And shot her. Twice now. 

He tries not to think of her, tries not to dwell on what they'd had, hidden and secret under the Red Room's nose. He doesn't want to think on how they were discovered, on how she was ripped out of his arms. They were both reprogrammed, made to forget each other completely, and never assigned to work together again. He remembers wanting to ask her to leave with him, to run where they couldn't find them, and being too much of a coward to do it.

He can't control his dreams, though. And he dreams of her often. He dreams of her lying on his chest, his fingers tangled in her hair. He dreams of them on a mission, killing their targets with brutal efficiency and retreating to their safe house. He strips her in a frenzy in Romania when she's shot, searching for other wounds, terrified he's going to lose her. She rides him in Portugal, toned thighs straddling his, her head thrown back as she makes the sweetest noises, gasping his name when his hand between her legs makes her come. _Yasha._

He doesn't know if these are memories or just dreams. He has no idea if the things he remembers are truths or just his brain trying to make sense of seventy years' worth of pain and memories. There are two things he is completely sure of, though. He is positive they were lovers, that he knew her body like his own. And he is sure he trained her, honed her into the deadly weapon she is today. He hates himself a bit for that, but doesn't regret it, not if it kept her alive. He hates himself a bit for that, too.

He gets tired of running. He remembers Steve, has found all the memories he needs and more that he doesn't want. It's time to come in. He lets Steve catch up with him in Istanbul, in a small, shitty apartment in a worse neighborhood. Steve gives him his sad eyes and makes an impassioned speech about how nothing he did was his fault, how he should come with him. He's already planning on it, but he lets him talk anyway. Seems like he's been prepping for a while.

She's waiting out front when Steve brings him to the Avengers compound in upstate New York. She's standing at the building's entrance, back straight and hands loose at her sides, a blonde man on her left. His stance in casual, but his eyes are alert and focused. James recognizes him instantly, not just as their archer, but as a fellow sniper. He vaguely thinks he may have encountered him in South Africa, but he isn't sure. He presents himself as relaxed, but James knows instantly that he's dangerous. 

She's watching him, face blank. She'd always been good at that, had always been able to school her reactions best out of anyone he trained. He knows her tells, though. He can see the tension in her eyes, in the way her right hand is closer to her thigh that her left, like she's itching to hold one of the knives she used to strap there. He remembers joking with her that it was like her comfort blanket. 

He realizes she doesn't know if he remembers her. She's waiting for him to make the first move and decide how this goes. He briefly considers pretending he doesn't have any idea who she is. It might be easier, but he discards the idea immediately. It's a charade he'd never be able to keep up and she deserves more from him than that.

"Natalia," he says, trying to keep the longing and fear out of his voice.

There's relief on her face, but he doesn't think anyone notices but him and the archer. "Yasha," she says.

His brow furrows a bit at that. "James," he corrects. 

She understands. Out of everyone, she would know. "Natasha," she says.

Natasha. He can remember that. 

Steve looks between them in confusion. James had wondered how much she'd told Steve of their time together, and it looks like the answer is exactly nothing. The archer doesn't look surprised at all, though. He has a feeling he knows why. He's heard the whispers of the Black Widow and her Hawk. It seems she's found another sniper. He tries not to let that hurt.

It takes months and a team of psychologists and doctors before he's allowed to roam the compound. He's been kept in a wing with Steve and no one else. They try to dress it up like it isn't isolation, but it is. He understands, even if he doesn't like it. The first thing he does when they decide he isn't an immediate threat is go outside. 

Part of it is cabin fever. He's been cooped up and wants to be outside again. Part of it is instinct. He walks the perimeter, notes at least three places the fence and defenses need reinforcing. It's habit at this point, a habit that's saved his life multiple times. The compound's grounds are sprawling, the green lawn giving way to tree cover that he thinks they use mostly for training. 

The small woods is beautiful and calming. It's been a long time since he's really done something for the sheer enjoyment of it, and his therapist is always pressing him to do more, so he makes his walks a daily thing. He still trains, still runs and lifts weights and does target practice, but he goes for his walks in the trees just for fun.

He's walking toward the woods, skirting the edge of the lawn when he sees the Hawk. No, Barton, he's learned his name is Barton. He's running on the track with a woman with long reddish brown hair. She looks like she'd rather be anywhere else, but Barton is coaxing her along with gentle teasing and soft encouragements. 

When Barton glances over and sees him, the easygoing smile doesn't slip. He waves in greeting and goes right back to ribbing the woman (Wanda, he thinks he heard him say). There's no alarm or tension, no hustling her away from the dangerous Winter Soldier. James doesn't know what to do with that. 

He sees Natalia - Natasha for the first time since that first day later that week. Steve had mentioned she'd been out on a long assignment, trying to probe for information about how he knows her. James had just shrugged as if it hadn't mattered to him one way or the other.

Natasha is in the gym with Barton when James walks in. They're circling each other on mats, both damp with sweat. Neither acknowledge his entrance, but he knows they're both aware of him. He thinks about leaving, he doesn't always want to share space with others, but he continues to the treadmills, keeping an eye on the two of them. 

Barton was easy and cheerful with Wanda, but he's intent and focused now, concentrating completely on Natasha. He dodges when she lunges, strikes back with a kick that has her dancing out of the way. They move beautifully together, both honed with deadly skill, their sparring looking more like a violent dance than anything else. It feels intimate and he tries to pull his eyes away, but he can't seem to take his gaze off of them.

Barton sees an opening and strikes at Natasha. She grabs him by the shoulder, swinging herself up his body, taking him to the ground with her thighs wrapped around his neck. For the first time in a long time, there's a stirring of something low in his belly. He remembers being where Barton is, having her strong thighs on either side of his face, both in sparring and not. 

Barton rolls with her, somehow having managed to get a hand between Natasha's thigh and his neck before she had taken him to the ground, pressing against her leg so she can't cut off his air. James tries to push down the want flowing through him, not even sure who he's most envious of, Barton or Natasha.

They're at a stalemate, they both know it, so without saying anything, they both release and roll away from each other. Natasha stands first, offering Barton a hand and tugging him to his feet. They talk quietly for a few moments, quiet enough that even James can't hear what they're saying over the treadmill, before Barton leans in and kisses Natasha's forehead. He pulls back, eyes soft, and grabs his gym bag, walking out. He waves to James without looking as he goes. 

James looks away, a stinging in his chest he knows he has no right to feel. He can see Natasha stretching out of the corner of his eye for the next fifteen minutes, but he focuses on the window instead, watching Wanda and Steve run drills. She looks even less enthused than she had the other day. 

Natasha grabs her bag and he expects her to leave like Barton had, but she walks toward him, leaning on the treadmill next to her until she's acknowledged. She's glistening with sweat, hair pulled back into a short ponytail, and he's assaulted with a whole host of memories associated with that. He shakes his head a bit before meeting her eyes.

"You and Barton?" he asks.

"Yeah," she says. Her voice is calm, but there's a challenge in her eyes, like she's daring him to say something negative.

"He seems like a good man," James says. This is probably a conversation they should have while he isn't running, but he needs something to focus on. "You don't have to worry, I'm not expecting us to...pick up where we left off."

"That's not what that was about," Natasha says. "You're one of the few people here we don't have to worry about how we present ourselves to."

James frowns slightly, not sure what she means by that. "They're your friends," he says.

"They're my teammates," she corrects. "Some of them are my friends. They don't need to know about my personal life. They'd mean well and probably tease, but knowledge is dangerous."

"So you keep it to yourself," he says.

"More or less," Natasha says. "You understand our way of thinking more."

"And you think I won't use it against you?" he says.

"We trust you."

James startles at that, stopping the treadmill and turning to face her completely. There's not a trace of lie on her face, though really, would he know what her lies would look like anymore? 

"I taught you better than that," he says.

The corner of Natasha's lips quirk up. "And I know you well enough."

"You don't," he says, shaking his head. "What you knew...who you knew was different. He wasn't...he wasn't really me."

"There were parts of us that bled through, despite everything they did to us," Natasha says, glancing away for the first time before meeting his eyes again. "There are parts of you I recognize, James. They're the parts I loved. I just wish you'd see that, too."

James doesn't know what to say to that, not when he feels like he's reeling. He knows she's always been perceptive, that she sees much more of people than they mean to show, but he doesn't remember being on the receiving end of that before.

"Wanda is cooking a Sokovian dinner for us tonight," Natasha says, giving him the out he desperately needs. "You should come."

Normally he'd automatically say no. He doesn't know most of these people and as much as Steve worries about his "sulking in the dark", it's easier to be alone in his rooms most of the time. He's surprised that he doesn't want to say no, though. There's an aching loneliness inside of him that he hasn't felt he deserves to fix, but he thinks he wants to.

"Maybe," he says. "I'll think about it."

"That's all I ask," Natasha says, turning to leave. She pauses for a moment and turns back around, pursing her lips. "If you ever want to talk and not to me, Clint's a good listener. And he has experience with his mind being controlled."

Natasha does leave then, leaving James standing on the still treadmill, replaying their entire conversation in his mind. He doesn't know what to make of any of it, really. He restarts the treadmill, hoping the repetition will help calm his mind. It mildly works, so that's something.

He debates with himself that night, not sure if he should subject others to his presence. In the end, the promise of food wins and he ventures out of his room into the large kitchen. Natasha is already there, sitting at the breakfast bar and watching Wanda cook, with Barton sitting on the counter next to Wanda, looking like he's harassing more than helping. They look up when he enters, Natasha smiling at him softly. 

"Hey man," Barton says. James nods in greeting.

"Hello," Wanda says, smiling at him over her shoulder. If she's uneasy with him being there, it doesn't show.

"Is that stroganoff?" he asks, trying to place the smell.

"Close, a Sokovian version of it," Wanda says.

"It smells good," he says. Wanda beams.

He'd read a bit about her from the files Steve gave him, about how she'd met the Avengers as an adversary. Steve had used her as an example of how just because they were on opposite sides at one point doesn't mean James doesn't belong. He hopes she doesn't feel as lost and isolated as he does sometimes.

"Do you need any help?" he asks. A few memories flash at him, helping his mother in the kitchen when he was younger. He misses her and his sister so much it aches.

"I'm almost done," Wanda says. "Thank you, though."

"You can help me set the table if you want," Barton says, hopping off the counter.

Natasha rolls her eyes. "You don't have to," she says to James. "He's always trying to get out of doing his turn."

"It's fine," James says. 

Barton points him to the plates while he grabs glasses, carrying a dozen clutched to his chest in a way that James is shocked they don't all fall. 

"Circus kid," Barton says with a grin and James isn't sure if he's kidding or not.

It's a little overwhelming with all the place settings, seeing exactly how many people they expect to be there for dinner. Barton notices and claps him on the shoulder, the first person to initiate contact with him other than Steve, and quietly says, "Sit by me and Nat and we'll run interference if you need it."

James looks at him in surprise. He knows what kind of man Barton is, he knows he needs to be intelligent and detail-oriented to do his job well, but he hadn't expected that he'd be able to read him so easily. 

"I have experience with ex-Soviet spies," Barton says, correctly interpreting his silence. 

"Natasha said I should talk to you," he says.

"If you want," Barton says with a shrug. "Don't have to."

"She said you also have experience with your mind not being your own," James says.

Barton shrugs again, but James is detail-oriented too, and he sees the tightness around his eyes. "Yeah, she's right," he says. They both glance toward the door when they hear Stark's loud voice approaching. "Find me if you ever want to discuss it. It's not exactly dinner table talk."

James nods, because he gets that. From what he remembers of big meals together, talks of mental trauma are generally avoided. Barton touches his shoulder again as he walks by when they're done setting the table, casually, like it isn't a big deal to him at all.

Steve ends up sitting at the head of the table, Bucky at the seat kitty-corner on his left. Without being asked, Barton sits across from him and Natasha sits on his other side, effectively giving him a bubble against everyone else. It's alarming that he's already added Barton to the list of people he might be able to trust, instead of an 'other'.

Wanda's food is as good as it smells and he's able to focusing on eating, drowning out the loud voices of Tony arguing good-naturedly with Thor. Steve tries to drag him into conversation a few times, meaning well but not seeming to realize he wasn't interested in talking, at least not much in front of so many people he doesn't know or have a handle on yet. Natasha and Barton redirect conversation easily, giving him a way out when he wants one. He's grateful and more than a little curious.

When he goes to bed that night, he feels just a little less isolated. It's small, but he clings to it.

He doesn't seek Barton out for a couple of weeks. He still sees him around the compound, usually with Natasha or Wanda, but he feels too raw most of the time to want to commiserate over brainwashing. When he does run into him, it's at 2:14 a.m. at the range. He has his bow, a crossbow, a pistol, and a set of knives laid out on the table in front of one of the stations. 

James has seen the logs when Barton uses the range, knows he prefers moving targets, usually small and irritating, so he knows that the stationary targets in front of him aren't because he needs the practice, but because he's trying to quiet his mind. The same reason James came here. 

He can tell the second Barton realizes he's there, a subtle shift in the way he stands, though his hands don't inch toward any of the weapons in front of him. Trusting or foolish, James isn't sure which. Or if they're even mutually exclusive at this point. 

"You don't have to go," Barton says before James even realizes that yes, that's what he had been about to do. Barton turns, looking at him over his shoulder. "Plenty of stations."

James hesitates but Barton turns back around, his attention once more on his targets. It doesn't feel like Steve pressuring him to join in, to try new things. It feels like easy acceptance, like he's welcome here and there doesn't need to be a whole parade and fanfare about it. He ends up at a station two down from Barton's, his own knives and pistols on the table before him.

He starts with his Glock, leaving his SIG-Sauer and knife sitting on the table. It's a familiar weight in his hand, and he hates that it comforts him just a bit. He aims and fires until it's empty, hitting the center of the target each time. He reloads, calls up a new target, and does it again. And again. 

Barton is working with his crossbow, holding it with ease and familiarity despite that fact that nothing James had read had mentioned him using it. It'd be an odd thing for an assassin to just do for a fun, but he's getting the impression that Barton is just an odd guy sometimes.

"It's the repetition, right?" Barton says when James is reloading, not taking his eyes from his own target. "It's like a lullaby."

"Something like that," James says. "It keeps my mind quiet." He doesn't know why he says it, if it's just because Natasha planted the seed that Barton is trustworthy or if he's just desperate for anyone who will understand. 

Barton nods. "Yeah, I get it. Loki, Thor's brother, stuck a magic whisk in my head and scrambled my brains," he says. His tone is casual, but James isn't an amateur. He can see the stiffness, the way his grip on the crossbow bolts he's loading is tight. "I spent a lot of time shooting shit. Well, that and eating pizza and watching Dog Cops on Natasha's couch."

"Dog Cops?" James asks.

Clint's eyes brighten, a real grin taking over his face. "It is the best TV show of the 21st century, don't let Darcy or Stark tell you anything otherwise," he says. "Come by sometime, I'll blow your mind."

At first, James doesn't know if Barton intended for there to be an innuendo there or not, but then he gives the least subtle wink ever, making James snort. "You'd have gotten along well with Dugan," James says, shaking his head. It's nice that thinking of the Howling Commandos doesn't hurt as much as it used to. "Never met a dirty joke he didn't like."

Barton grins. "Yeah, I'd say I have standards to my jokes, but Natasha would tell you I'm lying," Barton says.

He's not, though. James has heard him, has heard them all talk, and as crass and they all can get, Barton avoids the truly offensive racist and sexist jokes that tend to be low-hanging fruit. Nasty and self-deprecating seems to be his bread and butter. James shakes his head, checking his SIG is empty before tossing it and a clip at Barton. He snatches both out of the air with a smirk, tossing over his P30 and clip to James.

"Widest grouping buys lunch tomorrow?" Barton says, loading the gun and aiming at his target.

"Sure," James says. "I never say no to free food."

Barton laughs right until he fires, his accuracy not at all affected by using a different gun than usual. James grins. All right then.

There's no definitive winner when they're done, but Barton becomes Clint and promises to show him the long distance range he's set up a few miles away. James is surprised to realize he's looking forward to it. 

James ventures out around noon the next day because Clint had mentioned pizza for lunch ("This is _not_ me conceding defeat, it's just my turn to pay for pizza.") and finds Clint, Natasha, Bruce, and Steve already sitting at the table, Tony leaning against the counter. Steve smiles when he sees him, handing him a plate when he walks by. He loads up his plate with four slices and sits at the table between Clint and Steve.

Conversation continues around him and that's the way he likes it, not like when he first arrived and people would be suddenly silent when he entered a room. That hadn't been a joy. He makes it through two slices of pizza, occasionally snorting a laugh at Clint's stories or answering when Natasha asks him something, before yawning. He doesn't bother to hold it in, though he wishes he had because Steve immediately zeroes in on it.

"Did you not sleep?" Steve asks, brows furrowed in concern, because sometimes Steve has zero tact. He's thinking of when they were in Europe and he'd saluted him, giving away his position as a sniper, after James had taken out a HYDRA solider. Come on, Steve.

"We were having a competition," Clint says, taking the attention off James. "Best marksman in the world. Obviously, it's me." James snorts. "Barnes disagrees."

"I dunno," Steve says, grinning. "I've seen him make some pretty incredible shots. And with older weaponry than you have."

"You've seen me shoot an alien that was falling from the sky while I was riding another alien's back!" Clint says, affronted.

"Doesn't count if it was in the leg," James says.

"It was in the shoulder, thank you very much," Clint says. "And why would it not count?! Shot is shot!"

Natasha looks between them, a hint of a smile playing at her lips as she takes a sip of her tea. It feels good.

When Tony jumps into the conversation, trying to get Steve down to the lab to test some gear, Natasha looks at James and says, "Free afternoon?"

"Yeah," he says with a shrug. "It's not like I have much going on." Besides therapy and doctors, he doesn't say.

"Come to the gym when you're done digesting," she says, a wicked grin on her face. "You shot with Clint, now you get to spar with me."

He considers not going for all of three seconds, but eventually he nods. That seems to make her genuinely happy, if he still is reading her expressions right, and he thinks he is. He glances at Clint, not sure if he expects him to be jealous or not, but he seems completely relaxed, tossing jelly beans up into the air and catching them in his mouth.

An hour later he finds himself in his workout clothes at the gym, helping Natasha pull out the mats. She's wearing tight pants, yoga pants, he thinks they're called, and a tank top. He tries to keep his eyes off her and feels like a dog when he fails. 

"Clint's not coming," Natasha says when they set the last mat down, before he can ask. "He's spending the rest of the day with Wanda."

"Is she okay?" James asks. She hadn't been at lunch and something in the way Natasha said that gave him pause.

She purses her lips, doesn't say anything for a moment before deciding to speak. "It's the anniversary of her brother's death," she says. 

James winces. He'd read about what happened in Sokovia. He doesn't blame her for needing the day. He pushes her and thoughts of death from his mind as Natasha squares up in the center of the mat, holding herself loose but ready. 

They circle each other for a few moments, studying the other, until James lunges. He was fast as the Winter Soldier, but the way HYDRA conditioned him made him rely heavily on his strength. As Bucky Barnes though, he'd been fast and light, fighting like the sniper he was. Natasha hadn't been expecting it, barely dodging in time. She looks surprised, then pleased. He knows the only reason he's seeing her reactions is she's letting him, but that feels good anyway. She doesn't hate him.

Sparring with her is familiar but also new. They fall into their old pattern easily, comfortable with each other's style. He remembers teaching her a kick she uses to throw him off balance, how to swing up her opponent's body to wrap her thighs around their neck (he narrowing avoids that fate). But now and again she throws in something new, something unique that he and the Red Room never taught her. He's showing her a side of him that's his own, and she's giving him the same in return.

Natasha manages to knock him back, taking his legs out from under him and riding his torso to the ground as he falls, landing on her knees astride him. She grins down at him, victorious, before pushing herself to her feet. The Winter Soldier wouldn't have taken the hand she offers to help him up, but James does, letting her tug him to his feet.

"You're still impressive," he says. "I forgot how fast you are."

"So are you," she says. "Best two out of three?"

James grins, ready when she darts in. They're not as fluid as she and Clint were, though he has the advantage of knowing the new Natasha better than James, but they still work wonderfully together, far better than when he spars with Steve. Half the time Steve is too scared of hurting his friend to really let loose in a way that would be a challenge. Natasha doesn't aim to hurt him, but she doesn't hesitate either. It's refreshing.

James is the victor in the next two rounds, though his second victory is a narrow one. They're both out of breath and sweaty, but it's invigorating instead of exhausting. Natasha makes him promise he'll do this again, and try out Clint, before she leaves. It's an easy promise to make.

James takes a quick shower before heading back to his rooms. Now that he's not focusing on sparring with Natasha, he can't get Wanda out of his head. He'd been heartbroken to hear his sister Rebecca had died a few years before the fall of HYDRA, but she'd lived a full, happy life from what he could gather. He can't imagine being there when a sibling was killed, especially so young. 

When he was young, the custom was to bring food when a loved one died. As far as he knows, that's still what people do, but he's never been much of a cook, nothing that's good enough for others. He digs through his pantry, coming out with Reese's Pieces and Skittles, both of which are candies Darcy Lewis, a lab assistant, had shoved at him, insisting he try when he briefly met her. 

"JARVIS, where are Wanda and Clint?" James asks. He still feels a little foolish talking to an empty room, but is it really empty if the room talks back?

"Mr. Barton, Ms. Romanoff, and Captain Rogers have been called out on assignment," JARVIS says. "Ms. Maximoff is currently in the garden on the roof. May I advise bringing a blanket? It's getting cold and Ms. Maximoff didn't bring a jacket."

"Thanks," James says. He grabs the soft throw on the back of his couch and walks out, making his way to the roof.

The rooftop gardens were Pepper's idea as far as James knows. She'd said the facility was too industrial, that they needed something that was soft and happy. He thinks it's a great idea. He weaves through the trellises covered in vines and flowers until he sees her, sitting cross-legged on one of the wooden porch swings nestled between two flower beds overflowing with snapdragons. She's looking down at a book in her hands, but her eyes aren't moving on the page.

"Did Clint tell you to check on me?" she asks without looking up. He's not surprised she knew he's here, not with her abilities.

"No," James says. She looks up at that, surprised. Her eyes are red, but the tear tracks on her cheeks are dry. "I asked JARVIS where you were."

"Oh," she says. She sets her book aside and pats the seat next to her. "Well, you're welcome to sit if you don't try to make me talk about it."

"I'd be a hypocrite if I did," James says. 

He crosses the distance, sitting down on the porch swing, making it rock a bit. He wordlessly unfolds the blanket, draping it around her shoulders. She smiles slightly, pulling it tighter around her so her arms and legs are covered.

"Thanks," she says. "JARVIS was getting irritated I didn't have a coat."

"You're welcome," James says. He holds up the two bags of candy he brought. "Reese's Pieces or Skittles?"

"I've never had either," she says, almost embarrassed.

"Me neither," he says. He tears open each bag, pouring a bit of each into her open hand. "Let's try both."

The Skittles are a bit sweeter than he'd anticipated, but not bad. Darcy was right, the Reese's Pieces did, as she'd predicted, "blow" his "goddamn mind".

"These are good," Wanda says, popping another Reese's Piece in her mouth. "Pietro would have loved these. He was weak for peanut butter."

James wordlessly hands her the bag of Reese's Pieces, earning him a sad smile. They sit in silence for a long time, swinging back and forth, Wanda handing him her bottle of water when the candy is gone. 

"Have you read this?" she asks eventually, holding up her book. Harry Potter and the something. 

"No," he says. "What's it about?"

"A boy who finds out he's a wizard," she says. "Clint told me I had to read it."

"Is it a children's book?" he asks.

"Yes, but it's still good," she says. "Pietro and I used to read books like this to each other."

"I used to let my sister read to me," he says slowly, the hazy memory surfacing sluggishly. "She liked to make up her own endings when she thought the author's was stupid."

Wanda laughs. "She sounds smart," she says. She fiddles with the book's pages, looking down at the cover when she asks, "Would it be okay...if I read to you?"

His heart breaks a little at the way she asks, like she's trying to pretend it's not a big deal just in case it would hurt him, despite it being something she wants.

"Yeah," he says, clearing his throat when it comes out gruffer than intended. "Yeah, I'd like that."

Wanda smiles and opens the book, her voice soft as she starts to read. It doesn't hurt like he'd expected. There's a small ache for Rebecca, but it feels good to be remembering her. He thinks she'd have liked Wanda. 

Wanda reads until it's fully dark, the pages illuminated by the string lights woven through the trees. James stops her when it's too hard to see the pages clearly and the temperature drops. He walks her inside and to her room, where she turns to him, looking much more relaxed than when he'd found her.

"Would you like to read again sometime?" she asks.

"Yeah," he says, then, because he can't help it, "I think my sister would have liked you."

Wanda smiles. "I think I would have liked her, too."

It feels like a victory to have made a new friend.

She insists she'll be fine and wants to go to sleep early, so he goes back to his rooms. He's about to pour a bowl of cereal when JARVIS lets him know that Steve, Natasha, and Clint are on their way back and Steve wants to know if he's still up for dinner. Sighing, James says yes. It's not that he doesn't want to see Steve, he's just reaching his limit on social interaction for the day.

Luckily, Steve doesn't mean dinner with the whole team. He apparently had convinced them to stop for takeout after a short disturbance in the city, so it's just the two of them and a whole lot of pasta. James doesn't hate the others, doesn't resent Steve for having other friends, but sometimes it's good to have time with just the two of them. 

James forces Steve out when he yawns for the third time in as many minutes, telling him to shower and go to bed before he passes out. Steve flips him off, says, "Sure, Dad," and goes. James flips him off right back. 

James isn't great about keeping his phone on him, so he doesn't see there's a text waiting for him until he goes to bed. He snorts when he sees who it's from, Natasha having programmed Clint as 'Hawkguy' in his phone. 

_Hawkguy_ : Thank you for checking on Wanda. I felt like shit leaving her alone.

**James** : You don't have to thank me, I wanted to.

Then, because he has to:

**James** : You know Natasha programmed you in my phone as Hawkguy, right?

_Hawkguy_ : Still. She's like the kid sister and niece I never had all rolled up into one, and I'm grateful.

_Hawkguy:_ : Noooo, Tasha why?! Did you change it?

**James** : Nah

_Hawkguy_ : Why?!

**James** : :)

_Hawkguy_ : You and Nat, I swear. And people think I'M the biggest troll here.

James snorts a laugh at that and puts the phone aside, getting ready for bed. It's been a good day.

Natasha and Clint go out of their way to include him in even more things after that. The add him to a group message, just the three of them. Sometimes it's them making plans for dinner or gym or inviting him out with them. He usually says no, not thrilled on big crowds still, but he joins them at a little junky pizza joint about twenty minutes away once or twice.

Sometimes it's Natasha sending pictures of birds and asking Clint _Your relative?_ The first time James sends a picture of a crow that had stolen part of his sandwich, saying _Teach your brethren that stealing is wrong_ , Clint had sent a mess of letters in outrage, and Natasha had actually hunted him down on the outside patio to give him a high five.

Sometimes it's Clint sending them bad jokes, or bragging about a shot he made in 'The Barton/Barnes Greatest Marksman Competition'. But sometimes it's Natasha telling them she hasn't been able to sleep in three nights because of the little girl they weren't able to save of their last mission. Sometimes it's Clint revealing stories of his and his brother Barney's abusive childhood when Barney gets picked up once again by the police and Clint once again bails him out.

Sometimes it's James talking about what HYDRA made him do, how they stripped him of parts of himself, because for some reason it's easier to type it out than say it aloud.

James comes out of his room more often, spends time with the people he's coming to realize are his friends. Besides Steve and Sam when they're around and not off cleaning up the remains of HYDRA, it's mostly Clint and Natasha, though he spends a good deal of time with Wanda, too. 

Tony walks in on Wanda reading to James in the lounge one day, making a childish joke about them having crushes, which makes them both roll their eyes, before sheepishly asking if he could join them. He won't make eye contact as he mutters that Howard never approved of story time and it was something he and his mom had shared. Something in James aches, a familiar anger building in him at how someone he'd considered a friend a lifetime ago would treat his son so badly. James and Wanda scoot over to make room for him on the couch.

When Steve, Sam, Tony, and Rhodey are overseas on an extended mission, James spends a lot of time in Clint and Natasha's quarters. Technically they're Natasha's, but Clint is there 99% of the time, with his own rooms across the hall being used mostly for weapons storage. Sometimes they watch TV or movies they insist he needs to see. Sometimes they play games, and Clint cracks up at three of the world's best assassins playing dominoes on a Friday night. 

James is careful not to touch, not sure what the boundaries are and not wanting to overstep. The third time the three of them are watching TV on the couch, him sitting in the middle between Natasha and Clint, Natasha apparently decides she has had enough, throwing her legs over his lap, her feet resting on Clint's thigh. Her focus is on the TV, and when James glances at Clint, he's completely unconcerned, absently rubbing Natasha's feet. 

Later, when Natasha has gotten up to get drinks and come back, sitting cross legged next to him, it's Clint that leans against his shoulder, the subtle scent of his aftershave wafting to James' nose. He glances at Natasha, expecting her to not be thrilled that her current lover is cuddling up to her ex, but she's smiling at them softly before turning back to the movie.

Well, okay then. 

That night is the first he dreams of Clint. Natasha's weaved in and out of his dreams since he broke free from HYDRA, though now it's not just memories of her that plague him while he sleeps, but fantasies as well, scenarios his brain tortures him with. He tells himself it's not his fault, but he still feels guilty when he wakes up hard and aching after dreaming of her soft skin under his hands, her warm cunt around him. He feels bad enough dreaming of her, but now his traitorous subconscious is adding Clint.

He's more or less used to dreaming this by now, dreaming of Natasha's strong thighs wrapped around his waist, her hands buried in his hair. But now there are other hands on him, callused from his bow and arrow, trailing up James' bare back. James leans into the touch, humming when lips press again his shoulder blade, a tickle from the stubbled jaw making him shiver. He turns his head, meeting Clint for a soft kiss, hands tightening on Natasha beneath him.

James wakes with a start, out of breath and sweating, hard in his boxers. He groans, covering his eyes with his hands before rolling out bed and heading to the bathroom. He doesn't know if his therapist would consider the return of his libido a good sign, but he's started his days with cold showers more often than not lately. 

Later that day, when he's with Clint at the long distance range, it's hard to keep his focus on what he's doing, distracted by wondering how his hands would feel, what it would be like to kiss him. It's not the first time he's had thoughts about another man, not even close, but it's still distracting.

Clint, chronically underestimated Clint, notices, because he notices everything, even if he doesn't always let on. He frowns slightly when James' responses to his questions are a bit too slow, when his gaze won't meet his for too long. They're lying on their bellies next to each other, aiming at the targets downrange with their rifles, so it's not like he has many ways to hide.

"Hey," Clint says, leaning over to bump James' shoulder with his own. "You all right?"

"Fine," James says, a little more terse than he meant. He clears his throat and tries again. "I'm fine."

Clint's frown deepens. He hesitates a bit before asking, "I didn't make you uncomfortable, did I?"

"What?" James asks. "No, why?"

"I tend to get tactile with people I care about," Clint says easily, though there's a light blush at the admission. "I didn't think about if you would hate it, sorry."

"No, don't, I mean, I don't hate it," James says. "I used to be like that, I think."

"Yeah?"

"I think...I forgot how," James says slowly. He looks back down at his rifle, adjusting his grip. "You, uh, don't have to stop."

James can see Clint's grin out of the corner of his eye, smiling a bit himself when Clint bumps his shoulder again before going back to his gun. "All right then, good talk," Clint says. "Smallest grouping gets to pick the movie tomorrow night."

"Deal."

Little touches increase from then on. Clint rests a hand on the middle of his back when he walks by, has an arm slung around the back of his chair when they're sitting near each other. On one memorable occasion, he even hugged him before taking off on a mission.

It ramps up with Natasha, too. She sits in front of him, demanding a back rub, which makes Clint sit in front of her, demanding the same. It's completely ridiculous, but he does it anyway. She squeezes his hand when she can tell he's struggling around the others but doesn't want to say anything. He finds himself squeezing back, leaning into each new touch, letting them both ground him.

The dreams continue because apparently his subconscious just loves to torment him. Still, he'd rather have his illicit dreams filled with bare skin and gasping cries any day over the nightmares he still gets. In addition to relieving the horrors he'd committed as the Winter Solider, to seeing himself beating Steve to within an inch of his life, he now sees Clint dead at his feet, bruising around his neck. Natasha, bloodied and broken with a bullet hole in her head. Clint dying in his arms. Both of them taking their last breaths, looking at him accusingly as he impassively watches. Those nights are by far the worst.

Considering all he's been through and all he's done, he's pretty sure the nightmares are here to stay. Despite them, he can feel himself getting better. Sometimes it's slow, sometimes he won't want to leave his bed for a few days, but those days are getting fewer and farther between. Natasha doesn't let him wallow on those days anyway, completely happy to invade his room and drag him out of bed, by his ankles if necessary. Sometimes Clint comes just to watch the struggle. 

James goes for runs in the morning with Natasha since Clint won't, and James won't run with Steve anymore. That's too much pep in the morning for him. He does target practice with Clint. Clint got these annoying little robots from Tony that zoom all around the room and give you a little zap if you don't shoot them before they get to you.

On bad nights he sometimes finds himself on their couch, talking in a hollow voice about things he could never tell Steve, not because Steve would judge him, but because James doesn't want to see the horror on his best friend's face.

James can't help how he's drawn to Natasha. Old memories bleed through to new ones and he slowly learns who she is now. He'd known a very specific part of her. He could tell you how quickly she cleans her guns, her top three ways to take down targets, exactly how long it takes her to dismantle most bombs. He knows what makes her body sing and what makes fear race through her blood. 

But he likes getting to know the other sides of her, too. The side that likes honey in her tea in the morning, but not the afternoon. The side that makes her roll her eyes when Clint watches Dog Cops, but she watches anyway. The side that is fiercely protective of Wanda, who Clint has pseudo adopted as a mix of a niece and a sister. The side that loves to prank Tony with Clint and Darcy, even though Natasha will never get caught.

He loves this Natasha, too.

Then there's Clint. Clint who actually can empathize with "the whole mind control thing", (Clint's words, not his). Clint, whose empathy doesn't taste like pity. Clint who says, "I was made a believer. I didn't doubt or question, and that's what keeps me up at night. How easy it was to do that." Clint who covers his intelligence and skill with jokes and clumsiness, making people critically underestimate him. Clint who eats noodles right out of the container with the fridge door open with absolutely zero shame.

He doesn't love Clint, but he thinks he could.

James is told he can take missions if he wants. He doesn't have to and his stay at the Avengers facility isn't contingent on him joining the team, but it's an option he has. He's on the fence, though he's sure he'll go out eventually, when the call comes in about an elementary school being held hostage in Brooklyn. Only Clint and Natasha are available and he immediately says he's coming with them.

He'd worried about what it would be like, if going back in the field would feel too much like the Winter Solider's missions again. It's not at all. The Winter Solider was cold and calculating in everything he did. James has the same ruthless efficiency, but he's not removed. He feels what he's doing, there's a level of awareness there that he hadn't had before. 

He knows Natasha and Clint are ready to do what they need to in case anything happens and his programming is triggered, but they don't stare at him waiting for him to explode like a time bomb. They trust him to do his job.

There are minimal injuries, enough that they refuse paramedic attention. Once they're on the quinjet and headed back to the facility, Clint carefully cleans the cut on Natasha's arm. It's not deep, but it's long, and she winces a bit at the disinfectant. It's a mark of trust that makes James' heart swell, because if Natasha didn't want them to see she's in pain, they wouldn't.

When Clint's done, he hands the first aid kit to Natasha before settling back in his seat, taking inventory of his weapons. Natasha surprises James by crossing the quinjet to sit on the bench next to him, kit in her hand. She motions for him to take away the square of gauze he's pressing against a gash on the side of his head.

"You don't have to," he says, which just makes her roll her eyes. "I heal quick."

"I don't have to do anything," she says with a twitch of her lips. "Humor me."

James holds still as she looks at the wound. It's not deep, head wounds just like to bleed. She has on sterile gloves as she cleans the blood from his face, concentration written all over her face. His eye twitches when she disinfects the cut and she lets out a small puff of a laugh under her breath. She presses the butterfly bandage gently to his skin, fingers lingering before pulling back, an unreadable look on her face.

Natasha sets the kit aside but doesn't go back to Clint, leaning against the wall next to James, their shoulders pressed together. Clint's finished with his arrows and is twirling the shaft of one with a broken tip around his fingers, looking suspiciously uninjured.

"How did _you_ manage not to get hurt?" James asks. "You almost broke your hand yesterday trying to grab a bag of chips."

Clint grins. "Do you have any idea how nice it is to, for once, not be the one with a face full of bandages?" he says.

"I have one," James says. 

"And I have none," Clint says. 

"Let me see your leg," Natasha says. Clint's grin freezes on his face. Natasha raises her brows. "Let me see your leg," she repeats.

Clint lifts his leg it the air. "Okay, here's my leg?"

"Your other leg," Natasha says, batting his foot away. 

He's slower this time, lifting his leg. Natasha snatches his ankle and tugs up the leg of his pants, revealing an ugly bruise on his calf. "Ouch, Jesus, Nat," Clint says, yanking his leg back. "Okay, fine, but it's not my face and that's what counts."

James snorts and shakes his head. Can't believe he likes this idiot.

James isn't a team "regular", as Tony puts it, but he occasionally will go out on missions. Sometimes with Steve, though there have been a few flashbacks to the war that he hasn't enjoyed when they've worked together. Mostly he works with Natasha and Clint. The two of them have a seamless way of working together, synchronized in a way that they barely have to speak to be on the same wavelength. The transition to including him wasn't perfect, but they're quick and effective together.

He begins to notice things...and he thinks that maybe his attraction isn't so one-sided. And he doesn't know what to do with that. He considers pulling away, spending more time with Steve or on his own, but he knows they wouldn't let him, would demand an explanation and knowing Natasha, pull it out of him.

The thing is, he knows he's weak, he knows that he can't ignore the pull they have. They're celestial objects, bright and entrancing, and he's trapped in their orbit. He knows they'd laugh, both thinking themselves too sullied, too dirty for that, but he knows better.

He's mostly used to the casual touches from Natasha and Clint, touches that sometimes linger a bit too long, are a bit more intimate than they give to anyone else. And he starts reciprocating. His hands rest on Natasha's waist as he slides past her in the kitchen. His touch is light, ready to back off if that's what she wants, but she just smiles over her shoulder at him. He slings his arm around Clint's shoulder when they're sitting near each other. He startles himself by kissing them both on the cheek when he leaves one night, though they both look pleasantly surprised instead of offended. 

Then, when James is helping Natasha hang up a new painting in her living room, one that suspiciously looks like it came from the collection of the black market art dealer they captured a few missions ago, Natasha kisses him. They've just finished putting the painting on the hooks when she turns, resting a hand on his arm and kissing him. 

It's quick, just a brief, sweet peck on the lips, but it's enough to get his heart racing. He swallows hard, heart in his throat and turns to where Clint is leaning against the couch behind them, having been advising them on if the painting was level or not. He's expecting shock or anger, but what he finds is a look of want, hunger in his eyes.

Natasha turns him back to her with a gentle hand on his chin until he's looking in her eyes again. She smiles, one of those soft smiles he only sees when she's alone with him and Clint, and it makes something clench in his chest. She tugs him down to her slowly, touch gentle, giving him every opportunity to pull away if he wants to. He doesn't.

Then her lips are on his again, and it's not like last time. It's still sweet, still more tender than he deserves, but she doesn't pull back right away, keeping her soft lips on his, her body pressed to his front. He realizes his hands are tight on her hips, tight enough that if it were anyone else he'd worry about hurting them, but she knows what she can take. What she _likes_ to take.

When she pulls away, her pupils are dilated, her lips red and kiss-swollen. She grins up at him, tilting her head to the side. Waiting for him to make the next move. Not hand holding him, but letting him know that the choice is up to him. He glances back at Clint, who's still standing a respectable distance away, like he doesn't want to intrude, as much as he looks like he wants to join them.

James reaches a hand out in his direction and Clint doesn't need to be told twice, crossing the few meters between them quickly. He takes his hand, drawn together like magnets, then Clint's mouth is on his, more aggressive than Natasha but no less skilled. His hand tangles in James' hair, his other on his waist as he pulls back, slightly out of breath.

"History books talked about you being a ladies man. I wasn't sure if you'd be into men," Clint says, grinning.

"History's not as straight as you think it is," James says, making Clint shrug in agreement as he takes a step back, giving James some space. He and Natasha are both looking at him expectantly. 

"Is this something you want?" Natasha eventually asks, tired of waiting for him to speak.

"I don't want to get between the two of you," he says, not really answering her. Because the answer is yes, absolutely yes, and it's frightening thinking he may be able to have them. He needs to be sure though.

"What if we want you between us? Biblically?" Clint says.

"Smooth, Clint," Natasha says, rolling her eyes to the ceiling as if praying for patience. When she looks back at him, the look on her face is fond. "Bird brain is right though." 

"Rude," Clint grumbles, but he doesn't look offended.

Natasha continues like he hadn't spoken. "We want you between us. Behind us, in front of us, with us," she says. "And I think you want us, too."

"For how long?" he asks. If they're interested in just a night, he could do that, though it would be hard. He doesn't know if he should be bold enough to want more.

"As long as you want us," Clint says. 

"You can take time to think on it," Natasha says, but he shakes his head. He doesn't need time to think. He knows what he wants for the first time in what feels like a lifetime.

"I want you both," he says. "For as long as we have."

Natasha and Clint grin. She takes James' hand, stepping closer. "Can I show you what Clint and I have been fantasizing about?" she asks, her voice smoky. 

"Yeah," James says, swallowing hard. "Please."

Natasha tugs him by the hand, following Clint down the short hallway to their room. Clint kisses James, brief but heated, before sitting against the headboard, legs crossed at the ankle as he looks at James and Natasha. That hunger is back in his eyes.

"He likes to watch," Natasha purrs, running hands down James' chest, thumbs brushing over his nipples. She grins when it makes his breath catch. "And honey, he's been _aching_ to watch me with you."

James groans, surging forward to kiss her, hands coming up to frame her face. This is familiar, the need to touch her, the feel of her soft lips against his. She kisses him back, a soft sound in the back of her throat as her hands trail down to the waistband of his jeans, opening the button and zipper. He breaks the kiss, hissing her name when she reaches into his pants, stroking his hard cock.

"I want - " he starts, then groans when Natasha drags her thumb over the leaking tip of his cock.

"What do you want?" she asks, pressing a kiss to his stubbled jaw. "Tell me."

"I want to taste you," he says, voice a growl. 

Natasha's breath hitches just a bit, but he can hear it. "We can make that happen," she says, voice a purr. 

He tries to be slow undressing her, but they're both a bit more desperate than he'd thought, stripping each other quickly, even though they have all the time they could want. Natasha falls gracefully back onto the bed, her head near Clint's hip. Clint runs his hand through Natasha's hair, but that's it, content to watch as they touch. 

Natasha is glorious, miles of soft skin, skin he aches to touch again. His hands follow a familiar path up her strong thighs, over her hips, up her sides. There are more scars than he remembers, but he supposes that's to be expected in their line of work. He hesitates over the one on her belly, thumb brushes the scar where he viscerally remembers shooting through her. Her hand covers his and he looks up to see her looking down at him, eyes soft. 

"It wasn't you," she says. "I don't see that when I think of your hands on me."

He glances to the side, expecting to see something in Clint's eyes, anything besides calm understanding. 

"This one is from me," Clint says, trailing his hand down the curve of her breast, fingers brushing over a small silver scar the size of a fingernail on her ribs. Her hand that isn't on James' reaches up to cover Clint's. "During the whole Loki shit. It wasn't us, man. She doesn't hold onto it like that." 

He knows Clint, knows it took him a long time to believe that, but he also knows Natasha wouldn't say something unless she meant it, not to them, not about something like that. 

"Just touch me," she says, dragging his hand upward as Clint takes his own hand back. 

James takes her gentle encouraging, his calloused hands dragging up her sides, thumbs brushing the sides of her breasts. She hums, arching her back into the touch, encouraging him to give her more. He's never been particularly good at denying her anything, especially when it's what he wants as well.

James moves up her body until he's hovering over her, the differences between them stark. Her body is so small beneath him, so much more compact that his. If it were anyone else, he might see her as fragile, delicate, but he knows exactly how powerful she is, and how people so easily see her as nonthreatening because she's small. He's never been one to fall into that trap.

James lowers her mouth to her throat, curious to see if that one spot still makes her gasp. He grazes his teeth over the sensitive skin, grinning when she softly moans, tilting her head to give him more room. He bites down harder, just this side of leaving a mark, and continues down her throat, pressing gentle kisses to her collarbones before moving even lower. 

Her breasts are soft under his touch, her nipples hard and pebbled. He laves his tongue over one, rolling the other between his fingers. She whimpers and digs her fingers into his hair, rolling her hips up, dragging the wetness between her thighs against his hard cock. He curses, closing his eyes briefly. He remembers this, remembers how impatient she gets, even though she loves being played with.

James grazes her nipple with his teeth, tugging carefully before moving lower, guided by the hand in his hair. He presses a fleeting kiss to the scar on her belly before shouldering his way between her thighs, breath catching when she spreads herself wide for him. Her pretty little cunt is as perfect as he'd remembered, pink and glistening, and fuck, he's completely overwhelmed by his need for her.

Next time he'll tease her, work her up slowly, play with her until she's growling, grinding against his face and making demands, but not this time. He needs her, and he's fine with her knowing that. He licks up her slit, moaning at the familiar taste of her, swirling his tongue around her hard clit. 

"James," she hisses, thighs tense on either side of his face. The name on her lips is different for them, but the tone isn't, and he means to draw that out of her as best he can.

It's been years, but James remembers what she likes. He remembers that she loves riding his metal fingers, curled inside her to press against her g-spot. He remembers just how to flutter his tongue against the side of her clit, undulating steadily as he ratchets up her pleasure. Her hand tightens in his hair when he sucks at her clit, her hips rolling against his face.

"Shit," Clint mutters. 

When James looks up at him, his eyes are dark, his attention on the obscene wet noises from the two fingers James is fucking her with, like he wishes he could watch them disappear into her body. Clint's hand is rubbing over the hard bulge in his jeans as he watches them together, his other hand held tightly in Natasha's. 

He likes being watched by Clint more than he thought he would, likes how aroused Clint is just from seeing him between Natasha's thighs. He wants him to enjoy this, wants to see Clint play with himself for them almost as much as he wants Natasha to come on his tongue.

He moves his fingers faster within her, pressing against her g-spot, his tongue steady against her clit. It's a heady thing, feeling her shake, hearing her lose her carefully crafted composure. She has one hand on her breast, squeezing at her nipple and Clint is at the other, his mouth latched to her sensitive flesh. Clint's stroking himself as he sucks at Natasha and James groans at the sight, his cock hardening even further. 

Natasha cries out his name, thighs clenching around his head as she comes with a wet rush over his mouth. James nearly comes right then and there; only years of discipline keep him together, keep his mouth on her and fingers working her through it until her trembling thighs release him, her sweet cunt still clutching at his fingers.

"Fuck," Clint groans, his fingers still playing with Natasha's nipple. He looks up at James, want written all over his face. "No pressure, but what are your thoughts on me fucking you?"

It's been quite a while, but just the thought makes his cock jump between his thighs. "Please," James says, then snorts at the "Fuck yeah" Clint lets out under his breath. While Clint scrambles from the bed, stripping and looking for lube, Natasha tugs James up by his hair until he's over her again.

"Hey," she says, kissing him softly. She rolls her hips up, grinning against his lips when the tip of his cock catches at her opening. "We never use condoms. We're clean and pregnancy isn't a worry. We can if you want though."

"I want to feel you," he says, kissing her again and thrusting forward. 

She feels incredible, better than he could imagine, tight, wet heat around him. She wraps her arms around his shoulders, pulling him closer until there's no room between them at all. He can't do much but rock into her from this angle, but he has no desire to move, not with how tightly she's holding him, how her sweet cunt clenches around him.

Clint makes sure James can hear him moving before the bed dips behind him from Clint's weight. Looking over his shoulder lets him see Clint's beautifully nude, body strong, hardened with his own share of scars to match theirs, though he doesn't have the benefit of enhanced healing like they do. His cock is long and hard between his muscled thighs. James groans, letting his forehead rest against Natasha's as Clint runs warm hands up his back, then down, spreading him wide. 

"Let me know if I do something you don't like," Clint says, then there's the click of the lube's cap, and a slick finger circling his hole. He moans as it slowly presses into him because it may have been a while since he's done that, but it still feels just as incredible. 

Clint opens him up slowly, much slower than is necessary, James suspects mostly because it's just something he likes. His calloused fingers are brushing over his prostate too accurately to be accidental, though he acts like it is, the little shit. James is still rocking slowly into Natasha, not enough to get either of them off, but enough to keep them very interested.

"'M ready," James grunts, rocking against against Clint, who now has three fingers buried in James' willing body. "Come on."

Natasha laughs a little under him. "Wait 'til he gets in a mood. He'll want to play with you for hours just so he can watch you open up for him," she says. "He's a kinky thing sometimes."

"Oh?" Clint says, withdrawing his fingers from James, who immediately misses having something in him. There's a wet noise that lets him know Clint's slicking up his cock, then the blunt tip is pressing against his opening, Clint's strong hands on his hips. "Is that so, Ms. Three Different Strap-Ons?"

James groans, both at the delicious way Clint thrusts into him, filling him completely, and at the thought of Natasha with a fake cock between her legs. He realizes he's trembling, overwhelmed at being so surrounded by them, so completely encompassed. Clint's hips are still, his hands running softly up and down James' spine. Natasha cradles his face in her hands, nudging his nose with hers.

"We've got you," she says, kissing him sweetly. "We're going to take such good care of you."

James shudders, eyes briefly fluttering closed. He nods, keeping his gaze locked on hers as he rolls his hips, driving deeper into her, shifting Clint's cock inside him. Clint hisses, tightening his grip and James needs to feel him. He presses back hard, sinking as deep onto him as he can, and Clint gets the message, fucking roughly into him.

Natasha picks up on Clint's rhythm quickly, rolling her hips up in counterpoint to his thrusts, pressing her hard clit against James with a dirty little grind. It's hard to look at her without coming, so he buries his face in her throat, licking and sucking at the spot that makes her whine, her cunt tightening around him. His hand massages her breast, thumb rolling a sensitive nipple until her legs are tensing on either side of his hips.

She's louder than before, now that they don't have to hide, now that they aren't living in constant awareness that they could be discovered at any time. He thinks he is too, grunts and moans escaping him that he can't remember making since long before HYDRA. He has no baseline for Clint, but he loves what he hears, loves the breathless noises, the way his hips are losing their rhythm as he gets closer, loves how he hisses their names under his breath.

James isn't expecting it when Natasha comes, cunt clenching around him as she cries out, nails digging into his back. He's been trying to hold out, but seeing her face as she releases, feeling her inner walls spasming around him, it's too much and he follows her quickly, moaning long and loud, his cock jerking as he empties himself inside her. The pleasure is sharp and sweet, so much better than when it's just his own hand between his thighs.

Clint doesn't last much longer, thrusting just a few more times until he releases deep inside James, like now that they've both come, he can finally let go. He rests his head against James' back, breathing hard, fingertips digging into his hips.

James groans when Clint withdraws, already missing being filled. He slowly rolls to the side, his softening cock slipping from the heat of Natasha's body, until he's settling on his back next to her, breath slowly coming back to normal. A few seconds later, Clint faceplants onto the mattress next to him, making him snort as they all bounce. 

He wonders if it's about to be weird, if Natasha and Clint don't expect him to stay. Is there a protocol for fucking your two close friends? Before he can get too worried, Natasha rolls into his side, resting her head on his shoulder and Clint blindly throws an arm over his chest, accidentally smacking Natasha in the forehead.

"Fuck, sorry, Nat," Clint says, turning his head so he's actually looking their way, drawing his arm down so it's over James' waist and out of Natasha's face.

"Graceful as always," Natasha says, but she's not angry.

It feels good to just lie there, to touch them and be touched, to not have any demands made of him. He enjoys his arm around Natasha, being able to run fingers lightly over the skin he never thought he'd be able to touch again. He enjoys the warm line of Clint's body pressed to his, how his eyelids keep drooping but he keeps fighting to keep them open, like he wants to be with James and Nat for as long as he can.

"What now?" James asks, eyes focused on where Clint's tanned fingers are tracing little nonsense patterns on James' lower stomach. "This is still weird for this this century, right?"

"It's not conventional," Clint agrees with a shrug, fingers never pausing. "But so what? Neither is being an Avenger."

"We're the ones who decide how we're going to live our lives," Natasha says. He looks up at her then, at the surety and determination in her eyes. "No one else."

"I can't...if I lose control...I can't hurt you again. I can't hurt either of you," he says, putting a voice to the fears that still plague him on nights when sleep is particularly elusive. 

"You won't," she says calmly, and when she can tell he doesn't believe her, adds, "Your docs have all cleared you. Wanda can take a look in your head if you want, but I trust that the programming is gone as sure as I trust that mine is."

"And if it isn't?" James says. "If I - "

"We'll deal with it," Clint says, like it's that easy. He supposes it is in a way. It's what they do, take the problems as they come and deal with them. His therapist keeps telling him that the only way to live his life is to let himself live. 

"Okay," James says eventually, relaxing completely under their touches. Natasha smiles against his skin right as Clint's hand tightens on him. He tugs Natasha just a bit closer, turns his head to rest on Clint's shoulder.

Love is for children, he'd told her so many years ago. He doesn't know which of them he was trying to convince more. He's glad to be wrong.

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on [ tumblr ](http://www.hotpinklizard.tumblr.com).


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